Out to Lunch
by Night Monkey
Summary: When all Bobby has to offer for lunch is cheese in a can and moldy leftovers, Crowley suggests a picnic. Bobby isn't exactly picnic material, but what Crowley wants, he usually gets. Except for a good glass of wine. That keeps eluding him. Some Bobby/Crowley.


Thanks to some friendly encouragement and nibbling plot bunnies, I ended up with another Bobby/Crowley one-shot. Enjoy. Or don't. But I recommend you do. It'll be better for all of us.

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Bobby didn't have a world-class kitchen, but before today, it had never bothered him. Hell, he'd never really thought about it. He had enough food to keep him alive, enough beer to keep him sane, his microwave was reliable, and his sink generally did what it was supposed to do after Bobby took the plunger to it a few times. It was all he needed.

But apparently, it wasn't what Crowley needed. It wasn't even close. What Crowley demanded in a kitchen and what Bobby could provide were about as distant as Earth and the Voyager space probe.

"The only cheese you have comes in a can," Crowley said.

"And?" Bobby replied.

"And it's empty." Crowley pressed the nozzle on the spray cheese can and was rewarded with an empty hiss of air.

Crowley tossed the empty can into a trash can that sorely needed emptying. He then went back to exploring Bobby's fridge. Not that there was much to explore. The shelves were sparse, and most of what peopled the fridge was either sealed in Tupperware or wrapped in aluminum foil.

"How long has this been in here?" Crowley unwrapped a foil ball. "Long enough for the spores to begin an industrial revolution." The foil and its contents joined the cheese can.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I didn't know you were here to clean my kitchen. Want to do the dishes when you're done?"

Crowley popped out of the fridge long enough to eye the sink full of dirty plates, cups, utensils, and even an errant beer bottle or two that had found its way in. "I'm making lunch, so you're cleaning up."

"No, you're not making lunch, you're bitching. And you're bothering the hell out of me, so why don't you stop? We can...go to McDonald's or microwave something."

The look on Crowley's face suggested Bobby had told him to go and lick the bathroom floor for sustenance. Which, considering what Crowley thought of drive-thru food and dehydrated noodles, wasn't too far off the mark.

"There's an old saying, Robert: 'The French, they say, live to eat. The English, on the other hand, eat to die.' You eat to suffer, apparently," Crowley said, slamming the refrigerator door.

Bobby crossed his arms. "Excuse me for not shopping at Whole Foods. I don't think there's one in the state."

"There apparently aren't any grocery stores, farmers' markets, or hippie communal gardens, either. You have nothing edible anywhere, including in your liquor cabinet," Crowley replied.

"Stay the hell away from my booze," Bobby growled.

"Oh don't worry. I wouldn't force that swill on Meg!"

Most people would have cowed away in blind terror at the thought of upsetting the King of Hell, but Bobby was not most people. He glared at Crowley, and, keeping his eyes on the demon, pointed towards the front door. "Get out. This little lunch date is over."

Without another word, Crowley snapped his fingers and disappeared. The moment he was gone, Bobby turned around and kicked the cabinet behind him. That only sent a sharp pain up his leg, which did nothing to cool Bobby's temper. Partially limping, but swearing with no handicaps, Bobby stormed from the kitchen.

He returned five minutes later with a can of paint and a brush. He opened the refrigerator door and couldn't help but take note of how pitifully stocked his fridge truly was. Everything was leftovers, and some of it was, like a sad attempt at beef stew now moldering away in a sealed bowl, consolidated leftovers.

Just as kicking the cabinet had not helped dispel Bobby's anger, being reminded that he hadn't had a decently-cooked meal since Karen's death didn't brighten Bobby's mood any. He took a deep breath, managed to drive down the urge to drag his entire refrigerator, contents and all, outside and burn it, and got to work on the paint job.

Having put Devil's Traps, both obvious and hidden ones, around a large portion of his house, Bobby had the motions practically down to muscle memory. In mere minutes he had Crowley-proofed the refrigerator, liquor cabinet, and any cabinet door in the kitchen. That would teach the no-account, smug bastard. What did a Scottish demon know about food, anyway? Did Crowley forget haggis was entirely the fault of the Scots? Because Bobby would be more than happy to remind him!

"I could be wrong, but wouldn't those work better on the outside of the doors? Unless you've got tiny demons you're trying to keep in your cupboards."

Bobby dropped his paint can. If it hadn't been all-but-empty, it would have left a red trail as it rolled across the kitchen. Still clutching the brush, as though he intended to drive it into Crowley's throat—a motion Bobby couldn't quite count out—Bobby turned to the front of the kitchen.

Crowley stood there with, of all the ridiculous things, a picnic basket in his hands. A large, ribbon-wrapped, wicker picnic basket. It was the most picturesque picnic basket Bobby had ever seen.

"I thought I told you to scram," Bobby said.

"I'm sorry."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "What?"

"Though it pains me—no, it does, it's like holy water—to say it, I will repeat myself once and only once: I'm sorry," Crowley said. The King of Hell then held the picnic basket out hopefully.

Demons didn't apologize. Demons didn't admit they were assholes. Demons didn't come bearing cutely-wrapped gifts. Demons killed people and ruined lives and tried to take over the world.

Though for the life of him, Bobby couldn't figure out how such a goddamn gorgeous picnic basket could be evil.

"I enjoy your company, Robert—though your hygiene habits don't make it easy—and I'd like to present you with this peace offering. Shall we enjoy it together?" Crowley held the basket with his left hand, and extended his right hand, shaking it to encourage Bobby to take it. Bobby wasn't one for going anywhere hand-in-hand with the King of Hell, but, damn, something in that picnic basket smelled like a little piece of heaven that had been treated right by an Iron Chef.

Reluctantly Bobby placed his hand in Crowley's. It was, Bobby realized, the first time he'd held hands with the demon. They'd done...things...but somehow this gesture felt more intimate. Crowley's hand was warm and soft, almost but not quite feminine in its qualities. As for his own hand, Bobby supposed he felt like one big, hairy callus.

"Try not to let go," Crowley said.

Before Bobby could ask why, his kitchen flashed in front of his eyes, and, just as he opened his mouth to demand what the hell sort of trick Crowley was pulling, a whole new environment materialized. A beach, palm trees, humidity and not a snow bank or gray cloud in sight. They definitely weren't in South Dakota anymore.

"What was that?" Bobby asked.

"One of the perks of being the King. Or the King's-"

"Don't say boyfriend," Bobby interrupted.

"Does consort sit better with you?"

Bobby decided not to get into another tiff with Crowley, especially not over the right term for what they were. If such a term even existed. Which Bobby highly doubted.

"The King's whatever. So, your majesty, where are we?" Bobby asked.

"Florida. I thought about Argentina, but didn't want you to die of culture shock," Crowley replied, setting down the picnic basket but maintaining his grip on Bobby's hand.

"What the hell are we doing in Florida?"

"Having a picnic. I thought I made that clear."

"Why'd we have to go all the way to Florida?"

"Because South Dakota is buried under two feet of snow, and after that much winter, even I need to thaw," Crowley said.

"I ain't exactly dressed for the beach." Bobby raised his arms to demonstrate his plaid flannel.

"No you aren't, especially considering this is a nude beach."

Bobby wrenched his hand away from Crowley. "No way we're doing this."

Crowley laughed. "Calm down, Robert. It isn't a nude beach—though, since it's privately owned, it _could_ be."

Bobby decided to keep his distance, just in case Crowley started disrobing. The King of Hell showed no indication of getting buck-ass nude; he was too busy opening the picnic basket and pulling, like a magician's scarf, a striped beach blanket from the basket. Crowley unfolded the blanket and laid it out. Once there was a layer of protection between the hot sand and his tailor-made trousers, Crowley sat down. He pulled the basket onto the blanket, and removed from it a pair of plates, two wineglasses, and twin cutlery sets.

"Is that thing bigger on the inside or something?" Bobby asked. He still warily drifted on the periphery, as though the blanket was quicksand, though now that the basket was open, the scents drifting from it were all the more intense and mouth-watering. Bobby began to feel like a character in an old cartoon, physically lifted up and drawn in by the smell of a fresh-baked pie placed on a window sill.

"Why don't you come over here and see?" Crowley patted the blanket next to him.

Bobby shrugged. What else could he do? He was a thousand miles from home, on a secluded beach with a demon, and, truth be told, he was pretty hungry. Careful not to kick sand onto Crowley's blanket, Bobby took a seat where Crowley indicated.

Now that Bobby had joined him, Crowley could pass out food. From the basket Crowley produced a bottle of wine—it had a name Bobby couldn't begin to pronounce—and poured a glass for both of them. He then re-corked the bottle, set it aside, and brought out something Bobby was much more familiar with: cheeseburgers!

"Do you see this?" Crowley asked, setting a wrapped burger on Bobby's plate. "This is called _compromise_."

"I call it a bacon cheeseburger, but whatever makes you happy," Bobby replied. He unwrapped the burger and was inches from stuffing it into his face when he noticed Crowley's plate was still empty. "Where's yours?"

Crowley looked into the basket and the expression on his face suggested he was having second thoughts. It wasn't like he could renege now, though. With Bobby watching, Crowley had no choice but to reach into the basket and remove his own grease-spotted burger.

Bobby would be the first to admit he wasn't a classy or sophisticated person, but he'd never seen anyone do what Crowley did. The demon set his burger down and proceeded to cut it into tiny, bite-sized pieces. Using a fork, he then jabbed the smallest bit of burger and, with a grimace of pain, put it in his mouth.

"It ain't poison," Bobby said.

"It's the closest thing permitted by law," Crowley replied.

"Baby."

"Plebeian."

"Haggis."

Crowley looked like a Puritan brought to the present day and exposed to the dirtiest songs rap had to offer. "What did you say?"he hissed.

"Haggis." Bobby hoped he'd said it as loudly as the first time, because, at the venom in Crowley's voice, he found himself suddenly very nervous.

Crowley's eyes flashed red and Bobby wondered if he hadn't gone too far. He didn't want to back down, but he didn't want to be dragged to hell, either.

Unable to look at Crowley's blazing eyes for long, Bobby looked for anything else to which he could fix his peepers. He settled on his wine glass. While Crowley continued to burn with indignation, Bobby hastily lifted his glass and chugged.

Which didn't make Crowley any happier.

"That wine is older than you!" Crowley snapped.

Bobby found himself blushing. He was a decent hunter, a damn good researcher, and even a serviceable mechanic, but there were dogs that knew more about fine food and wine than he did. Even if he did live in the sticks, and in a state with no Whole Foods stores, being this coarse and tasteless was still plain embarrassing. Especially with Crowley, who had more class in the elastic of his socks than Bobby had in his whole house, looking on like that.

"Sorry," Bobby muttered.

The demonic glow faded from Crowley's eyes. He sighed. "No, Robert, it was my fault. This," Crowley lifted his own wine glass, "is me. And _this_," Crowley motioned towards the mutilated hamburger on his plate, "is you. Wine can't become hamburger, and hamburger can't become wine."

"But...they can complement each other, can't they?" Bobby asked. He was vaguely aware of hearing of such things as matching wine to food, probably from infomercials.

Crowley paused and gave Bobby an appraising look. "Yes, they can. Given the right pairing."

"And is this the right pairing?" Bobby asked.

Crowley considered his full wine glass, but then got a much better idea. "There's only one way to judge."

The demon and the hunter apparently had very different ideas as to what that one way was, because as Crowley leaned in for a kiss, Bobby reached for the bottle of wine. Crowley ended up with his nose pressed against the thick flannel on Bobby's shoulder, and Bobby ended up feeling like even more of a moron.

"Sorry," Bobby said for the second time in five minutes.

"Good, you should be, because that was your fault." Crowley plucked the bottle of wine from Bobby's hand, stood up, and pitched the bottle into the ocean. To ensure Bobby couldn't be distracted by anything else, Crowley hurriedly packed everything except the blanket back into the basket, and then slammed the lid.

The moment the basket was closed, Crowley threw himself on Bobby. The hunter hadn't been expecting the surprise attack, and he fell backward. Luckily the sand and blanket cushioned the impact.

Thanks to the failed attempt that had left Crowley eating flannel, Bobby knew what Crowley wanted, and resisted the instinct to roll or try to recover when bowled over by a demon. He endured the weight of the King of Hell as Crowley grabbed him by the shoulders and, forcing him deeper into the sand, kissed him fervently.

By the time they broke apart, Bobby was left gasping for air. Crowley, it seemed, didn't need to breath, and while Bobby panted, Crowley smacked his lips. The sweet, peppery taste of the wine lingered on his tongue.

It was a very nice pairing.

* * *

The End.

Thanks for reading.

"The French, they say, live to eat. The English, on the other hand, eat to die" is from the Martin Amis book _Money_. I don't know if the phrase predates him, or if he invented it.

And in case you were wondering, according to Whole Foods' website, there are no stores in South Dakota.

And thus concludes Night Monkey's fun and educational facts for the day.


End file.
